‘Knox? Sure. Hard man, a real face. He was at Michael’s funeral – didn’t you see him? Big guy. Fortyish. Blondish sort of hair. Why?’
‘No reason,’ said Ruby.
She was sure she had seen Knox there, watching her with hard blue eyes.
She kept the flowers – they were beautiful – but she binned the note, and the letter.
As she picked up the phone, Ruby’s mind had already made the assumption that it would be something to do with her plan to roll out coffee shops across the Darkes chain. Shifting to professional mode, she forced herself to confront her reflection in the mirror above the telephone table. Lately, she had avoided mirrors. Now she looked and there she was: Ruby Darke, still battling away, still coping. She saw a woman of a certain age and mixed race, dark haired with café au lait skin. She was model-thin (maybe too thin, since Michael had gone and food had lost its appeal) and elegant. She was dressed in black, and pearls. Her features were delicate, and her straight, thick black hair was swept back into a neat chignon. She looked confident and wealthy. But her eyes, darkest brown with speckles of copper-gold, told the true story. The expression in them was anxious and miserable, full of sadness.
‘Is that Ruby?’ It was a female voice, accented – French or Italian? – with a hint of uncertainty.
‘It is.’ A little frown of puzzlement wrinkled Ruby’s brow. ‘Who is this?’
‘I am Bella Danieri. Tito’s mother.’
Ruby’s false business smile dropped away. Italian, then. She’d heard the news about Tito, and how he’d died. Everyone had.
‘I want you to come to his Requiem Mass,’ said Bella. ‘If you would.’
‘Well I…’
‘Please. I want you to come.’ And Bella started reeling off the time, the place, the date.
Ruby paused, hearing but not wanting to, wondering how she could get out of this. She hadn’t even known Tito, not really. He’d been an associate of Michael’s, so she’d brushed up against him once or twice. She hadn’t liked him. One look into those soulless eyes had told her all she needed or wanted to know about Tito Danieri. She had formed the strong impression that Michael had done his utmost to keep her out of Tito’s way. So no, she didn’t want to attend his funeral.
‘I don’t know…’
‘Please, you must.’ Bella’s voice trembled. She stopped speaking. Then she seemed to gather her strength to go on. ‘Please come. I have to talk to you. Or I tell you, blood will flow.’
And there it was. The witch’s curse.
